


you got me singing

by blindbatalex



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Boston Bruins, M/M, Oops, brad is allegedly a hot shot hockey player, more characters and pairings to be added as they come into the story, patrice is a single father, patrice is also...not exactly a bruins fan in this universe, rating might be updated??, three parts domestic fluff one part angst this fic, zack is adorable
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-28
Updated: 2018-02-28
Packaged: 2019-03-25 04:56:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13826940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blindbatalex/pseuds/blindbatalex
Summary: “I realize how it sounds,” Brad says, a placating hand raised in his defense, (it must be a common thread with him, Patrice thinks, this thing where he has to stop people around him from committing murder or kicking his ass on a regular basis) “but it sucks to get zapped from one universe to the next okay, no choice in when and where to, and if it makes any difference I’d rather be back home having tea with the entire Department of Player Safety than sit here and give this talk right now.”Or, where Patrice is a single father minding his own business and the storm brings in a loud, short, and infuriating stranger who claims he is from a different universe. One where they are both hot shot hockey players, allegedly.





	you got me singing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [beanmused](https://archiveofourown.org/users/beanmused/gifts).



> For Emma, who answered so many of my silly hockey questions and has been a great beta! Also a shout out to mm_nani for her very helpful structural feedback. 
> 
> you got me singing ~ even tho’ it all went wrong ~ you got me singing ~ the hallelujah song || Leonard Cohen.

It’s late. Zack has finally caved in and Patrice is proud he managed to put him to bed without falling asleep himself this time. 

Patrice gets up with a yawn and stretches. Zack is still for the first time since the morning, and he looks at peace as he sleeps, happy. Patrice smiles at him, and with a gentle kiss on his son’s forehead, walks quietly out.

Outside a storm is raging; rain hammers away at the windows and the wind howls as it passes through every crack it can find. It kept Zack awake for the longest time until Patrice reassured him that neither could come in.

It is also probably the reason he doesn’t hear the front door - not until whoever is outside starts banging like their life depends on it.

Patrice frowns. He isn’t expecting company at this hour, doesn’t know anyone who would show up without calling ahead first, especially in weather like this.

The pounding on the door doesn’t relent; the person on the other side is intent on either breaking the door, or waking Zack. 

(And Patrice doesn’t know which one would be worse.)

“Alright, alright I am coming,” he mutters as he hops down the stairs. 

A gust of wind hits him in the face when he opens the door, blows rain into the house.

And along with it a man who comes flying in, off balance and hand raised in a fist as if he was getting ready for another round of banging when the door opened.

Patrice surges forward and catches him in the nick of time before he can crash face first onto the floor. His momentum is enough to almost bring both of them down. Patrice staggers backwards, holding onto the man, trying to keep them both upright; he notices that the man is shaking.

“Fucking finally Bergy,” the man says into Patrice’s neck, “it’s awful out there.” 

_Bergy._

Patrice’s skin prickles at his nickname, out of place here in his hallway, a ghost from the past.

He lets the man go when they are finally no longer in danger of tumbling to the ground, and studies him, willing his mind to remember how they know each other. 

He comes up blank.

“Oh also,” the stranger continues, taking a step back, wiping away the hair that’s falling into his eyes, “I puked on your flower bed, hope you don’t mind.”

He is short - a good head shorter than Patrice - and looks a little younger. He speaks with a faint Canadian accent and a nose of epic proportions takes up half his face.

There is something feral about his movements too - the breaths that come in quick and shallow, the way he holds onto the wall with a hand to keep himself upright - and he looks utterly dishevelled between his rain soaked clothes and his hair that won’t stay in place. It makes Patrice want to lean in on instinct and offer a hand to steady him, make sure he is okay.

“Are you alright?” Patrice asks, “do you need to go to the hospital?” 

The man’s eyebrows shoot halfway up his forehead, like he has heard something utterly shocking. 

“Really?” he asks, regarding Patrice with a combination of curiosity and disbelief. “I mean I wouldn’t put it beyond me but just what did your Brad do to make you treat me like a total stranger?”

Patrice’s scowl deepens - none of those words make sense.

“I--have we met?”

Perhaps that was the question he should have lead with.

“Have we met.” The man scoffs and sinks against the wall, muttering about it just being his luck. “Bet you don’t even play hockey, do you?” he says. “Not with this house.”

He must see something in Patrice’s face though - Patrice is a hair’s breadth away from asking the man to leave - because he changes tracks and raises a placating hand.

He says he can explain. 

He says that it’s awful out there and that he would kill for some tea, please.

“I’m not actually going to kill for tea Bergy, God.” he scoffs when he sees Patrice eyeing a particularly sturdy umbrella.

Patrice clears his throat and looks away. The man doesn’t really look like much of a threat - profoundly annoying, yes, but also pitiful and probably too weak to commit murder just now. 

The sensible thing would still be to kick him out, and maybe call the cops too for good measure. (He has a kid in the house for fuck’s sake.)

“You better have one hell of an explanation,” Patrice says through gritted teeth instead, annoyed at himself for caving in, as he leads the way to the living room.

 

*

The explanation turns out to be that the man - _Brad_ , he tells Patrice, though Marchy also works - is not from this universe.

Patrice eyes him over his own mug of tea, trying not to balk, and wonders what else he exactly expected after all that gibberish at the door.

“I realize how it sounds,” Brad says, a placating hand raised in his defense, (it must be a common thread with him, Patrice thinks, this thing where he has to stop people around him from committing murder or kicking his ass on a regular basis) “but it sucks to get zapped from one universe to the next okay, no choice in when and where to, and if it makes any difference I’d rather be back home having tea with the entire Department of Player Safety than sit here and give this talk right now.”

Brad, as he tells Patrice, is a hot shot hockey player where he is from. One day he fights with “his Bergy” after a loss, wishes he was anywhere but there and bam! -- next thing he knows he is zapped into a timeline where he, or his counterpart in that timeline rather, got traded to Dallas instead of someone called “Segs”. And he finds himself in yet another universe a few days later.

“But do you actually though?” Patrice asks, “do you actually realize how crazy that sounds?” 

But the weird thing is - the thing that really gets Patrice - sure, it’s bonkers as far as explanations go, but oddly enough it rings with truth. There is no pretense in Brad’s s voice, in his body language as he recounts his tale, even if it sounds a little practised. (And his distaste for the Department of Player Safety rings particularly true, too visceral and painful to be an act.)

Patrice doesn’t like it one bit. 

Brad takes a sip from his tea and shrugs. He looks tired. “I don’t know man. Honestly? I would probably have kicked my ass out long time ago.” 

Patrice reclines back in his chair and considers. That is still probably the most sensible course of action - a lot more sensible than this conversation they are having.

“But please don’t do that,” Brad adds quickly, “you are like the nicest man I know. Please don’t make me spend the night out _in that_. I have nowhere to go.”

He makes puppy eyes at Patrice, imploring, and looking at him now, the way he is buried into Patrice’s sofa, his head resting in his hand like he doesn’t trust it to stay straight on its own, Patrice can’t find it in his heart to shove him out the door, highly implausible story or not.

“Just for tonight,” Patrice says firmly. “tomorrow you are on your own.”

Brad pumps his fist at the words with an emphatic _yes!_ and beams at him. 

“You are a lifesaver, Bergy did you know that?” Brad asks as Patrice leads the way up the stairs. His words are soaked with fondness, as if Patrice is his favorite human in the world. It’s unsettling and the warmth it elicits in Patrice is entirely unfair.

Patrice tells him that no one calls him Bergy, making sure to keep his voice neutral. 

Not anymore. Not in years. And here it is, rolling off this strange man’s tongue easy as drawing breath.

*

Sunlight filters in between the closed blinds and bathes the room in a soft light, the storm long gone. Brad lies buried under the covers that are pulled all the way up to his neck, still enveloped in a deep sleep. 

Patrice stands in place three steps in from the door and regards his guest. Brad’s lips are parted slightly and he looks less like death today, the morning light and a good night’s sleep having restored some color to his face. 

He starts to walk towards the bed to wake him though a weaker part of him just wants to let the man sleep, peaceful as he looks. Before he can however, Zack charges in with a happy battle cry and does the job for him instead, throwing his soccer ball right at Brad’s head. 

Brad’s eyes fly open with surprise and he scrambles to sit up. 

“Uncle is awake!” Zack says through a bubble of laughter, pointing at Brad and delighted at his accomplishment. Patrice picks him up and looks between his son and his guest, watches Brad’s face melt into a grin as he gains a sense of his bearings. 

“That is a very rude way to wake up an uncle, young man,” Brad tells Zack. His voice is playful, fond, and he doesn’t seem at all bothered by the way he has been woken up. Zack giggles again and buries his head into Patrice’s shoulder. 

_Too fond_ , Patrice thinks with unease, holding his son, _too familiar_.

*

He doesn’t exactly kick Brad out after that, but it’s a close thing. Whatever this is, it has gone too far, is putting his family - his son - in danger.

Brad doesn’t make a big deal out of it, just changes into his own clothes and makes the bed.

But he does stop Patrice as they are walking out with a hand on his arm, draws him in for a hug before Patrice knows what’s happening.

“Last night - you didn’t have to do that man,” Brad says looking at him. “Thanks.” His eyes are a deep shade of hazel and they are still tired. And there is something in them that Patrice can’t quite read, like Brad wants to say more but doesn’t know how. 

Patrice wants to say something in return, wish him good luck maybe in finding his way home, wherever that may be, but Brad turns around before he can. Patrice stares after him as he walks down the street, hands in his pockets, and then he is gone around the next corner.

*

He texts David first thing when he gets into the office, asking if he wants to get lunch. David would love this if for the opportunity to drag Patrice for being too kind again alone.

He only gets a row of sad faces and a “can’t until Friday” though, which leaves his mind to wander on its own.

Everything Brad did and said implied they were teammates in his universe; that he was an NHL player too. 

Patrice tries to imagine what it would be like to play, to take the ice day in day out and dazzle the way Pacioretty or Gallagher does. Tries to imagine celebrating goals with Brad in matching Canadiens jerseys. It seems so distant now, these dreams that once sang to him of a bright, promised land in the dead of the night.

He used to be good at it then, had coaches say he would make it to the NHL if he gave it his all.

One of his coworkers juts her head in the door. She apologizes when it startles him. 

“All my fault, don’t worry about it,” Patrice says with a smile and shifts his attention to the expense reports he was supposed to finish reviewing half an hour ago.

He thinks back to the way Brad recognized him, recognized Zack. 

If Brad’s story is true, he has a family in that timeline too, that much is for sure, which means--

What does it mean, exactly? Does he have a nanny in that timeline, to take care of Zack when he is on long road trips, or his parents living close by? Or--

Patrice sighs and stops himself before his mind can reach for images of coming home after late flights, sneaking into bed quietly next to Steph, careful not to wake her.

There is no point to any of it. 

He can’t. 

~*~

He doesn’t know what he expects exactly when he gets home but it’s not Brad lying on the grass on his back basking in the sun like a lazy cat. 

Zack makes a beeline for the swing, jumping over Brad’s legs and Brad’s eyes flutter open from the commotion.

It’s a pleasant enough evening, the sun is hanging low on the horizon, bathing the neighborhood in hues of yellow and orange. And the spring is finally poking its head out after a long and cold winter. The ground must still be damp however, from the storm.

“Might I ask what you are doing?” Patrice says, as he follows after Zack. It comes off a little sarcastic. But only one them promised last night to be on his own today and showed up unannounced on Patrice’s front door again nonetheless.

Brad yawns and regards Patrice from under his eyelashes. It’s a completely different look on him than both last night and this morning, he is perfectly calm for the first time. As he stretches his t-shirt rides up to reveal a strip of skin above the waistband of his jeans, and tease his well-defined abs. Patrice doesn’t look. 

“Waiting to zap out.’ Brad answers, matter of fact. “Tried looking up the Brad in this universe so I could go bug him instead, turns out he never made it past age of ten. Nobody knows me or needs me here. So.”

Of course. Any tangible evidence to his story, anything to back up his claims is of course missing. 

Zack, tired of waiting to be put in the swing, gives his hand a powerful yank accompanied with loud bursts of _daddy please_.

Patrice picks him up. 

“Thought you didn’t have control over when you got thrown into a new universe?” he says carefully, taking care to keep his voice casual.

Brad rolls onto his side and props himself up on one elbow. The sunlight catches in his eyes from this angle and Patrice realizes that they are more green than hazel and very pretty.

“I mean I don’t, but this seems like a mistake you know?” he says with a half-shrug. “There was some version of me in every universe I got pulled into.”

He sounds earnest enough, and there are traces of frustration in his voice just under the surface. Patrice misses the times his life was simpler than this.

They stay like that for a while - Brad on his back on the grass, Zack squeeing with delight in the swing. Patrice asks him what he intends to do next and gets informed that the answer is “nap.” 

The sun has almost disappeared behind the row of houses and he already looks asleep by the time Patrice scoops Zack up to get inside and fix some dinner.

*

Inside, he puts water on the stove to boil and starts on the salad, making space on the counter by pushing everything on it out of his way. To say that the house, and especially the kitchen is a mess is an understatement. His cleaning lady quit two weeks ago with no notice, Zack had a mild temperature over the weekend, and between that and work Patrice had absolutely no time to clean. 

He scoffs despite himself when he looks out the window. Dusk is slowly settling in and on his lawn still lies one Brad Marchand with his arm as a makeshift pillow.

Even if he doesn’t come from a different universe like he claims, he doesn’t seem loaded with spending money and it’s been a long time since Patrice stuck him out of the door with a granola bar in hand. 

Patrice meant it last night though when he said it was a favor for one night and one night only. That from the morning onwards Brad was on his own.

He can’t afford to run a charity mission out of his house, provide shelter for homeless men, especially when he has a kid in the house.

And that applies to men who are infuriating and sweet in equal measures and who may or may not be stuck in a foreign place with no one to turn their backs to.

Patrice opens the window. 

“Did you eat today?” he yells at Brad.

Startled, Brad stirs and turns over to regard Patrice.

“Got an old lady to share her carrots with me, I think that counts?” he yells back, voice a little hoarse with sleep.

_God. Just like Patrice thought._

On the stove the pot starts to boil over. Patrice rushes to it to turn the heat down. He reaches out to the box of pasta and ponders it, resisting, willing his hand to only put enough for himself and Zack.

Brad isn’t his problem.

He can’t save or help everyone.

And it’s already a lost cause.

Patrice sighs in defeat.

“If I offer you dinner,” he yells out the window again, “you have to wash a giant stack of slightly moldy dishes in return. And tomorrow you are really on your own.”

**Author's Note:**

> There is so much more to come of this fic! The later chapters are by no means set in stone though so if you have ideas or fluff you want to see please tell me. As a reminder - I write better when I get comments and kudos, friends! Positive feedback is one hell of a drug. 
> 
> I am also on tumblr @ blindbatalex if you’d like to come say hi.


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